


Mirrors for Magistrates

by run run whithertits (whithertits)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mindfuck, Mistaken Identity, Possession, Pre-Canon, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whithertits/pseuds/run%20run%20whithertits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>YED!John/Dean preseries fic.  In which Dean thinks John has been hit with a curse that lowers his inhibitions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirrors for Magistrates

"Ready?"

Dean widened his stance and took a deep breath. The gun was heavy in his hands; he had to strain his muscles to keep the barrel up, but he didn't mind the burn. John's arms came around from behind him and adjusted his grip, warm and sure.

"You'll need to change how you hold it as you grow," John said, the gravelly rasp of his voice rumbling through Dean's chest. "I want you to focus on your aim today; see if you can hit the targets." He drew his arms back and stepped away. "Don't forget to re-aim after every shot. Take your time with it. Eventually you'll know how to shoot through the effect of the recoil."

Dean bobbed his head eagerly. He didn't want to disappoint John; he was going to hit the target on the first shot, he just _knew_ it. He stared at the glass bottles across the field until his eyes hurt, then breathed in. He exhaled and pulled the trigger.

The brown bottle exploded, and Dean's ears rung with the sound of his shot. Giddy with victory, he aimed again and shot. Another bottle down. Eight bullets and eight bottles later, he lowered his gun and turned to face John. His shoulders hurt from the strain of holding up the gun, and his face hurt from grinning so hard, but it was worth it, to see that expression on John's face. That was pure pride.

"You're a natural," John said, taking the gun with one hand and ruffling Dean's hair with the other. "I'm going to add more push-ups to your PT, strengthen up your shoulders a bit."

"It was so _cool_!" Dean said. John winced, and Dean realized he was shouting, slightly deafened from the loud bang of the gun going off so close by.

John smiled at him and turned him back toward the Impala with a gentle hand on Dean's back. Dean couldn't keep the words in as they went, so the air was filled with his eager chatter. John didn't seem to mind, nodding and smiling at Dean every few steps. He checked Sammy, still sleeping in his car seat, and held open the door to the front seat for Dean to sit in.

Dean whooped and jumped into the air, pumping his fist. John rolled his eyes and crossed over to the other side. "Come on, kid, just get in. It's time to go. I want to make it to Pastor Jim's before dark."

Dean clambered into the front seat and shut the door with a loud _bang_. His arms must not have been that tired, after all, if he could still slam a door like that. "Can we listen to Zeppelin?" he asked. He knew it was John's favourite, since he smiled every time he pulled the tape out of the box.

"Sure," John said. He punched the eject button and handed Dean the Who tape to Dean, who placed it reverently back into the box with the other tapes, by the back in its spot. He pulled out a Zeppelin tape at random-- John had six of them-- and shivered as the first strings of guitar poured out from the speakers.

"Will I be able to practice some more at Pastor Jim's?" Dean asked, bouncing in his seat in time to the music. He wished it were morning; he'd be running laps, burning off the energy coursing through him.

"You sure will, sport," John said. He tapped his fingers on the wheel and looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean had his eyes on John, so he saw. "You really are a natural," he said. The same pride was back in his voice, and Dean puffed his chest out. "Most people can barely hit the side of a barn the first time they fire a weapon." He laughed, and ducked his head. "Your mom was just like you, you know. Natural, right from the first shot."

Dean stilled in his seat. "Mom could shoot?" he asked. John almost never talked about Mom, even when Dean wanted to.

John laughed, but he didn't sound proud anymore. He sounded sad. "Mary shot like she was born with a gun in her hand. I'd never seen anything quite like it," he paused, looked at Dean, "Until you, that is. She hit her targets every time, just like you."

Dean could feel a flush building up in his cheeks and swore to himself he'd spend more time in the sun, so it wouldn't be so obvious when he blushed. "I didn't know she could shoot," he said, quietly. "She was really cool, huh?"

John nodded, tapping his fingers on the wheel again. "Your mamma was a fine woman. The best. She'd be so happy to know you took after her."

Dean's ears were _burning_ , and he sat up straight even though he felt like hunching in on himself. He was never going to hide from his resemblance to his mom. Not ever.

***

Dean was biting into his hamburger, determined not to check his watch again, when John finally slid into booth opposite him. He swallowed his bite with a grimace and met John's eyes. Waited.

John ignored him and flagged down the waitress. He ordered, more than usual, and asked for a beer. Dean's eyebrow crawled up his forehead; John had lectured him often enough about drinking on the job. "Did you find it, then?" he asked.

John straightened and pressed his palms flat against the table. "No," he said. He tilted his head at Dean. "It was a bad lead."

Dean frowned. "Are you going to tell me what, exactly, it is that we're after? I don't like being left in the dark." _You said we'd be partners_ , he didn't say. _You said there'd be no more secrets, that we had to stick together since there's no one else, anymore_. He could never give the thoughts voice, because he didn't know what he would do if John ever went back on those words.

Tension eased out from the set of John's shoulders. "It's too risky." His foot brushed against Dean's, under the table. "Even talking about it can draw the wrong sort of attention." His hand snuck across the table and stole one of Dean's fries, and he jammed it into his mouth deliberately.

"Sure, you can have some of my fries, Dad, go ahead," Dean said, rolling his eyes.

John hesitated, and a wash of realization spread over his face. He hesitated for a moment and gestured at Dean to lean forward, voice low. "I think-- I think something happened when I went to meet my contact." The shame was easy to read in his face, voice.

Dean reared back. " _What?_ " He knew something was wrong, he could _feel_ it, the subtle current of not-quite-right that had been poisoning the air since John sat down. "What happened?"

John sprawled himself out across the seat, arms out wide over the top of the booth. "I'm not quite sure," he said, voice lazy. "My memory's a little foggy." He reached a hand down, lazy and obvious, and adjusted himself in his pants. Dean was pretty sure his eyes were going to fall out of his head. "I walked in on my contact trying to unbind an earth spirit. I think the spell-- misfired." He yawned, mouth wide, and didn't bother to cover his mouth.

Dean wished he'd waited before eating. "So?" he asked, impatient for more but unwilling to risk John's ire by pushing harder.

John raised an eyebrow at Dean. " _So_ , I got hit with it instead. And if this," he gestured down at himself, "is any indication, I think the spell took an unexpected turn."

"What did it do?" Dean asked, voice tight and quiet. "You're free. How could it unbind you?"

John waved at Dean to be quiet and smiled at their waitress as she approached with his beer in hand. "That's a right sight for sore eyes," he said, and winked. The waitress laughed and placed the bottle down on the table, and strode off with a strut in her walk. John cracked his knuckles and stared after her, taking a long draw on his beer, and then turned back to Dean. "I'm pretty sure it's... loosened me up."

Dean stared. "Come again?"

John put the beer down carefully. "I think," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, "That the spell worked with what was there. It had to set something loose, so it found an outlet." John breathed in deep, and his foot brushed against Dean's again. "As far as I can tell, it's gotten rid of my hang-ups. Lowered my inhibitions." He took a long pull from his beer, and tapped the ground next to Dean's foot. "It's almost like I'm drunk, but my hand-eye coordination is fine."

"You can't be out in public like this," Dean said. "There's no way to know how this is going to affect you as time goes on, if it's going to get worse. You could start talking about hunts to a civilian." Dean clenched his fists, hidden under the table. "You're compromised."

John slapped him.

Dean's cheek hurt, and his ears were ringing from where John had hit his ear. John was sprawled back against the booth again, completely careless. "Watch your tone," he said, voice lazy.

They weren't sticking around to wait for John's food. "We're leaving," Dean said. He stood and walked around to tug John up by the arm.

John stood, but yanked his elbow out of Dean's grip. "Don't think you can lay your hands on me, boy," he growled.

Dean stood firm and held eye contact with John, deliberately challenging. "We need to leave," he said carefully.

The anger didn't clear from John's face, but he eventually nodded. He picked up his beer and tilted it up, throat working obviously as he finished it. He stared at Dean the whole way through, like it was some sort of pissing contest. Dean broke the eye contact and pulled out his wallet to pay their bill. He left more than enough; he didn't want to stay here long enough to get the actual total.

John followed lazily when Dean headed toward the door, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He held the door open for his father, and watched carefully as John belched and climbed into his truck.

"I'll meet you back at the hotel?" Dean called across the parking lot. John waved one hand out the window of his truck and started his engine. In less time than it took to blink, he was pulling out of the parking lot with a screech of tires.

Dean cursed, and hurried into the Impala to follow.

***

Keeping John inside the motel room was an uphill battle, and it only took two days of John jacking off to bad porn and leaving take-out containers scattered around his bed for Dean to break and let him loose on the bars at night. John wouldn't be the only person there with a loose hold over his control, and Dean needed the time alone to try and figure out a cure. John's focus on the hunt had fled with his restraint, and he was being stubbornly unhelpful on the search.

Dean was hanging up the phone on Pastor Jim when a key clattered in the lock and John stumbled into their room. Dean straightened, wary, and watched John's moves. There was no telling what kind of mood John was in, these days; he'd lash out unexpectedly one moment then fumble for Dean's face in apology the next.

John was hunched over, one hand splayed over his ribs, and he moved like the years of injuries had finally caught up with him. Dean moved forward and stopped just out of reach. "You're hurt?" he asked, voice tight with anxiety.

John grunted at him and extended a hand for Dean to take. Dean ducked under John's arm and took his weight easily and moved them slowly in the direction of the washroom. "Ribs," John said, obviously pained. There was a bruise on his face, light now but obviously gearing up to be one hell of a shiner. Dean lowered John onto the closed seat of the toilet and went to fetch the first-aid kit.

"You get kicked out for fighting?" he couldn't stop himself from asking when he came back in.

"Watch your tone, boy," John growled, and lifted his arms with a wince for Dean to take off his shirt.

"Yes, sir," Dean muttered, and pressed his fingers against his father's ribcage, pressing gently along the bones. John's skin was hot and tender, and he sucked in a breath at the touch of Dean's fingers. "I can't feel a break, so they're probably just bruised."

John sighed and jerked his head at the other room. "Bring me the bottle of Jack." Dean frowned, but went and got the bottle obediently. He got the bandages out of the first-aid kit and started wrapping his dad's ribs, even as John twisted off the cap and took a long swig of the whisky.

"You don't think you've had enough for tonight?" Dean asked quietly. He worked quickly and tied the bandage off without flourish.

John took another swig and glared at Dean over the edge of the bottle. He swallowed noisily and said, "I'm going to be stuck here with your punk-ass self for the night, then I'm going to be drinking to take the edge off." He stuck his arm out for Dean to help him up, the other clenched tight around the neck of the bottle, and Dean did. "It's hard enough to put up with your attitude when I'm _not_ in pain."

Dean focused on getting John into his bed, resisting the urge to flinch. "I need to clean the guns," he said.

John was staring at him, he could feel it. He lowered John gently onto the bed on top of the covers and moved the TV remote within easy reach. "You been slacking off on your duties, son?"

Dean forced himself to look at his father. "I've been a bit distracted trying to find you a cure," he said.

A scowl crawled over John's face. "Don't make me tell you again: you watch your tone."

Dean looked away. "Sorry, sir." He flicked on the TV and stopped it on a boxing match, then settled himself down on the opposite bed to start his chore.

The smell of gun oil spread through the room as he worked. It felt familiar, working like this; if he pretended Sammy was off reading at the library, it would be just like any of a thousand nights from his childhood. He slid the cleaning rod down the barrel of his sawed off shotgun, hands working from memory. It was quiet except for the match, the announcer reporting gleefully on the damage being done.

Dean'd gone through all of John's guns and half of his own when John broke the silence. "You're just like her, you know."

Dean blinked himself out of his thoughts and frowned at his father. There was maybe an inch of whiskey left in the bottle still clutched in John's hands, the flush in his cheeks enough to tell Dean his father was well-past tipsy, though the slight slur to his words was more than enough to tip Dean off. His eyes were glassy and focused on Dean with an unfamiliar intensity. "Just like who?" he asked. If John wanted to talk, they would talk.

John sighed, and Dean watched in alarm as he palmed himself through his pants. "Mary," he sighed out, voice filled with longing.

Shit. Dean straightened his spine and kept working, forced him voice to sound casual. "You sure you want to get into this right now?" he asked.

Dean could just see John's face out of the corner of his eye, dark with anger. "You looking for a whuppin?" he asked calmly. It was the false calm of true anger, Dean knew. John never talked about Mary if his head was on straight.

"No, sir," he said. He kept his focus on his hands, on his job.

John grunted and took another swig. "You look like her, too. When you were a kid it was worse, all that blond hair," he said, reminiscing. "That's why I cut it off." He laughed, dark and grim. "Couldn't stand the reminder."

Dean remembered the day John had cut his hair short. He'd been drunk then, too, done such a piss-poor job he'd had to take Dean to a barber the next day to fix the damage. He kept working.

"It's the eyes," John continued. "So fucking green. Long lashes, too. Just like her." He trailed off after that, his thumb rubbing along the seam of his jeans. Dean wasn't looking.

Dean was allowed a few minutes of blessed silence before John spoke again. "Come here, Dean," he said, gesturing at the bed next to him. Dean dragged his eyes from the gun in his lap with reluctance, and met John's eyes. He patted the bed next to him and said, "Sit."

Dean reassembled the gun and left it on the bed unloaded before he moved to sit on the bed next to John's feet. "What is it?" he asked, wary.

John sighed and motioned him closer. "I just wanna look at you for a while," he said. Once Dean was within reach, John's hand was on his face, big and rough. Familiar. Dean tensed when John unbuttoned his jeans and stuck his hand down the waistband of his boxers.

"Dad--" he started to protest, but John slid his thumb against Dean's bottom lip hard.

"You just be quiet and let me look at you," he said. His voice was rough with want, his eyes bright and keen on Dean's face. "You really do look just like her." He grunted, and his leg twitched against Dean's thigh. "Too fuckin' pretty for your own good."

Dean turned his head away. "I know you're drunk," he said quietly. "But Dad, this is sick." He stood up, but was jerked back down immediately by John's hand on his wrist, so he was splayed out over John's lap. He could feel his dad's cock against his belly through his shirt, hard and eager. He shuddered and pushed himself away. "Dad, come on. You're drunk."

"I'm not so drunk I can't see," John growled. He pushed Dean back, so it was his face that was lined up with John's cock, and grunted in pain; wrestling with Dean couldn't be easy on his ribs. "I just want-- you look just like her." He pulled his cock out from the slit in his boxers and waved it in front of Dean's face. His cock was big, thick and cut, the tip an angry looking red and already wet with precome. "You can do this for your old man, can't you?"

Dean dragged his eyes from John's cock and met his eyes. " _No_ ," he choked out through the noose around his throat. He hated this curse. Hated it.

Anger joined the desire on John's face, and he narrowed his eyes at Dean. "You suck my cock," he said, "Or tomorrow I'm gone. You've been giving me a lot of attitude lately, Dean. More than most hunters would take. I wasn't surprised Sam left; anyone with two brain cells to rub together would get sick of you clinging to them like you did to him. You've always been clingy when I got back from hunts, asking for more, more, _more_ when I had real work to do. I always gave you what you wanted. And _you're_ going to tell me no?" He ran his hand through Dean's hair and tightened his grip to pull Dean's face up toward his own. "Is that what you're telling me?"

Dean gritted his teeth and focused his attention past John's shoulder. "You're drunk. Sir."

John shoved Dean's face back toward his crotch, so Dean's nose was mashed into his pubic hairs. It smelled down there, the musky, familiar scent of an aroused man. Dean's gut clenched at the sense memory it brought up, his throat already sore. "You do as I say," he said. He stroked his other hand down Dean's face. "I'll even let you pretend it never happened in the morning, how's that sound?" He let go of Dean's hair and brought his hand down to his cock, angling it toward Dean. "Don't bother to pretend you're bad at it," he added as he ran tip over Dean's lips. His breath hitched, and a bead of clear fluid pulsed out from his cock, undeniable.

Dean flicked his eyes between John's face and his cock, stomach roiling, and then closed them in resignation. John was too far gone to be reasoned with, and if Dean left now, John would just hurt himself trying to follow him. He breathed in, then out, over the tip of John's cock. John moaned, deep in his chest, and when Dean looked up, he was smiling. "Good boy," he said. "Make your Daddy proud."

Dean closed his eyes, turned off his brain and opened his mouth.

***

John woke up the next morning hung over and angry. He snapped at Dean when Dean tried to help him get up, pulls away from Dean's touch. Dean caught him staring every few minutes, but ignored it. By the time they were packed up and ready to go, there was a stone settled deep in Dean's guts which he knew means he wouldn’t be touching food that morning. A part of him thought it was John's spunk inside him, refusing to settle.

On their way out the door, John stopped and met Dean's eyes for the first time since he woke up. "You should go out tonight, pick a fight," he said. "A man can't help himself, with you looking like you do. You need to butch up a bit."

Dean reared back, stung. "What?" he asked dumbly.

John stared at him hard. "You heard me. Your mouth's an open invitation, and I'm not going to be strong enough to say no as long as I'm under this curse. It's gonna be your responsibility to make sure this doesn't happen again."

Dean felt sick, but nodded. "Yes, sir," he managed to say, face down, turned away. He wrapped his hands around himself, suddenly cold.

John made a hungry noise and pressed himself against Dean without warning, forcing him back against the edge of the door. Dean froze. They were the same height, but John had always seemed like he was bigger than Dean, larger than life. John lowered his head down against Dean’s neck and breathed in, moving up until his nose was almost buried in Dean’s hair. He growled and jerked himself back a foot. "You see?" he said angrily. "You need to be roughed up, or you're going to get in trouble." He swung his arm back and punched Dean in the face, so hard the other side of Dean's face slammed back into the frame of the door. His head was swimming as he blinked at John. John studied his face with a critical eye and nodded. "That should do for now."

John was out the door and headed for his truck before Dean could gather his wits enough to reply.   
He turned himself toward the Impala and made a mental note to call Pastor Jim as soon as they stopped; this couldn't keep happening. He wasn't going to lose his dad, too.

***

Pastor Jim didn't press for details when Dean said the situation was getting worse, but admitted he'd been unable to find anything. He told Dean to call Bobby, and Dean reluctantly agreed. John didn't talk to Robert Singer anymore, and for good reason. The last time they'd been at the salvage yard, Bobby had chased them off with barbed words and a loaded shotgun. He hadn't been too pleased with John's account of Sam's departure, and John hadn't taken kindly to the other man's reprimands. Dean thought Bobby was probably right, but he knew better than to contradict his father. He'd never called Bobby himself, but he'd memorized the number a long time ago, ‘just in case’.

"I know a guy," Bobby had grunted over the phone, voice distracted. He'd gotten surly when Dean hadn't been able to provide him with more details than the bare basics John had shared, but he kept his thoughts on the matter to himself. "He's a witch doctor, specializes in curses like this. If anyone can help you, it'll be him." He rattled off the guy's address and then waited.

"Thanks, Uncle Bobby," Dean said into the silence on the other end of the line. "I owe you one."

"You don't owe me shit, son," Bobby said, his voice small from the receiver. "Your daddy, he owes me more than he can count."

Dean blinked against the sudden, random sheen of tears that filled his eyes. "Thank you," he said again, quietly.

"You take care of yourself," Bobby said, but Dean's attention was on the bathroom door. John had opened it, and the steam was curling out from the room behind him like smoke.

Dean dropped the receiver down unceremoniously. He grabbed his own stuff for the shower and said, "That was Bobby. He knows someone who can help with your-- problem."

John stayed silent, eyes tracking over Dean in a way that Dean already knew far too well. "That's good," he said eventually, and thank god, he didn't seem mad at Dean for breaking the silence between the two hunters. "Where do we have to go?"

“Louisiana," Dean answered. John hadn't moved out from the bathroom and he walked closer reluctantly. "New Orleans," he said, hoping that would be good enough.

John nodded and stepped around Dean without a backwards glance. "We'll leave in the morning," he said. He jerked his head at the shower. "This place is a dump, but the hot water's good. Get to it."

Relief washed over Dean. This was the John he remembered since Sammy left them, quiet but brusque. This Dean knew how to deal with. "Yes, sir." He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind himself, and hesitated before he turned the lock. He usually wouldn't bother, but. But.

He stripped off quickly and shifted his weight, the wet floor uncomfortable against the soles of his feet. He faced the mirror and reached out to brush the moisture from it, until he could see the reflection of his own eyes in the mirror. His cheek had bruised nicely from John's fist, and a straight line of red decorated the other side of his face from where he’d hit the door frame. People had been shooting him and John suspicious looks all day, and Dean didn't think too hard about the fact that all their suspicions were, for once, right. He turned away from the mirror and turned the hot water on full, and stepped into the stream.

He took longer than usual to shower, scrubbing violently at his skin with the soap. By the time he turned the shower off and brushed the curtain aside to climb out, he almost felt clean again.

John was leaning against the bathroom counter, eyes trained on Dean. "You didn't lock the door," he said, voice quiet.

Dean jerked his eyes between John and the door, hanging open, completely undamaged. He would have heard it if John had picked the lock. "But--"

"Since you didn't," John continued, "I have to assume you want this, too." He straightened and leaned forward and dragged Dean in, so their chests were pressed together. His shirt pressed into the naked skin of Dean's flesh and clung to the water there. "That's sick, Dean. I'm cursed, but you-- you're twisted." He leaned forward and licked a line up Dean's throat. His voice rubbed against Dean's skin as he spoke. "You should be ashamed of yourself, taking advantage of your old man like this."

"I locked the door," Dean said. He reached his hands up and pushed hard against John's shoulders, but it was like he was pushing back against a man possessed, how little impact it made.

John chuckled. "The door was open, Dean." He slid his knee between Dean's legs and slotted it against Dean's soft cock. "The door was open, and you're so hot for it you can't even pretend to fight back." He gathered Dean's hands up in one hand and crowded him back, until Dean was pressed against the wall, and pinned Dean's arms above his head. His grip was loose on Dean's wrists. "Fight back," he said, and rocked forward. Dean could feel John's hard cock pressed up against his own thigh. "If you don't want this, fight back. I'm not holding you down."

Dean did. Dean did, but even though John's grip on his wrists was loose, he couldn't escape. He thrashed against the hold and couldn't break free, and then collapsed against the wall. "Christo," he said out of desperation.

John kept eye contact with Dean as his eyes stayed the same hazel as always, though darkened with arousal. "You're pathetic," John said. He spun Dean around and bent him over the sink, the crotch of his jeans pressed against Dean's naked ass. "You pretend you don't want this, try to make me feel _guilty_ , and then dangle yourself in front of me when you know I can't say no." He pressed his chest against Dean's back, his breath ghosting over Dean's ear as he spoke. "You should have just asked me to fuck you."

Dean tried to straighten, but couldn't. His body just wouldn't push back hard enough, like the strength had been sapped from his limbs. "Dad, no. You're sick, this curse if fucking with your head." He bowed his head and closed his eyes tight. "Just let me go."

John slapped his ass and Dean jerked forward at the force of it, almost hit his head on the tap. "You need to stop pretending you don't want this," John growled angrily. "We both know it's not true, and I'm not going to play into whatever twisted rape fantasy you have. If we were going to play games I'd have you in stockings and lipstick, so I could pretend I'm fucking Mary instead of my slut of a son."

"What the _fuck_ , Dad," Dean cried out, hands clenched into tight fists. He jerked back, but all it did was press his ass harder into John's cock. "I locked the door. I don't want this. _Please_."

John hands snapped down over Dean's shoulders and gathered his hands up into one of his own, big hands just like Sam's, big enough that he could hold both of Dean's wrists in just one of them. "You want to play it that way, fine," he bit out. "But I'm not going to listen to your lies." He shifted behind Dean, and Dean gave a full-body twitch when he felt the distinct texture of leather closing around his wrists. He twisted himself to look behind him, and watched in shocked silence as John tied his belt around Dean's wrists. "Dad," he started, but didn't get any further before John bent down and gathered up Dean's briefs and forced them into his mouth.

"You can pretend this is rape," John said darkly, "But we'll both know the truth. This is your fault, Dean. Once this curse is lifted, you remember that you took advantage of me when I couldn't help myself." He shoved another bunch of fabric into Dean's mouth and nodded in satisfaction. "You don't spit that out until you're ready to beg, you hear me?"

Dean could feel the whites around his eyes showing, and nodded jerkily. He didn't want this, but some part of him wondered. He hadn't stopped John last night, when he could have. _Should_ have. He hadn't locked the bathroom door when he _knew_ John would be checking, knew John couldn't control himself.

Maybe there was some part of him that wanted this. The same part of himself that had him out on his knees in back alleys instead of calling Pastor Jim when he and Sammy had needed money for food. He didn't know. That was the worst thing: he didn't know if John was right, and he really did want this. His mouth was dry, the cotton of his briefs soaked through.

Dean bowed his head down, stared at the scummy drain of the sink, and shifted his stance to spread his legs.

"Atta boy," John murmured, hands suddenly gentle as the slid down Dean's back, soothing him like he was no better than a hysterical civilian. "You stay right there, Daddy'll be right back." With those words John was off of Dean's back, but Dean didn't straighten. Didn't struggle against bonds he maybe, maybe, wanted. He was still soft, and his chest hurt, but doing this should hurt. It was wrong. Dean was _sick_ , to want his own father.

John's hands were back on Dean's ass, spreading him apart with one hand and rubbing lube into Dean's hole with the other. It was cold, and Dean shied away from the touch. He blinked, and tears spilled down his cheeks. "Shhhhh," John soothed. He pressed the tip of one finger just inside, spreading the slick. "You'll get my cock soon, don't worry. It'll be okay, Dean." His finger withdrew and came back with more lube, spreading it around Dean's ass and sliding just inside, so Dean's ass was dripping, but John hadn't gone deep. Dean knew he needed more, and tilted his hips up in hopes of getting it.

John chuckled, and slapped Dean on the ass again. Dean could feel his hole clench up at the pain, and cringed as a drop of lube was squeezed out and went rolling down his crack toward his balls. "Your little hole is hungry," John said, voice proud. "I know just the thing to fill it up."

Dean clenched his abdomen and raised himself off the sink, looked over his shoulder at John. He wasn't ready to ask for this yet, knew he needed more prep. He darted his eyes between the lube and John's face, trying to convey his request. John stared at him without comprehension and then shook his head. "I'm not going to use a condom," he said, like it was obvious. Dean felt sick, stomach knotted in on itself, and struggled against his bonds. John's expression fell, and he reached around Dean and took a firm grip on his chin, pulling until Dean was facing straight on. "I know you want to pretend this is rape, Dean," he said. He let go of Dean's face long enough to wipe at the mirror, so Dean could see himself and his father in its reflection. "But I don't think that's healthy. You want this, then you want _me_. Don't deny it." He nodded his head at the mirror. "I want you to watch as I fuck you, Dean. So you don't forget what’s going on, because you know I would never do this against your will."

Dean met the reflection of John's eyes in the mirror and nodded once, slowly. Their gazes were still locked when John held the head of his cock against the slick rim of Dean's hole, was looking him straight in the eye when John thrust himself _in_.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath and he meant to keep his eyes open, he did, but he squeezed them shut against the pain as John worked his cock into Dean, slowly, because there just wasn't enough lube.

"Eyes open, Dean," John said, and kept pushing forward. It felt like Dean had a baseball bat being stuffed into his ass, and he couldn't watch the pleasure that was breaking out all over John's face. Dean met his own eyes in the mirror, and let out a soft cry at the sight.

The steam had cleared, and the entire scene was visible in the mirror's reflection. In it, Dean looked like he was enjoying this. His pupils were blown out from pain or arousal, a flush painted high on his cheeks. The tears he couldn't keep back made his eyes brighter than normal, and they shone out from the dark fan of his lashes. John drew his hips back and pistoned in again, deeper, deep enough that he brushed Dean's prostate for the first time, and Dean shuddered as his cock twitched to life. He did want this. He must, or else he wouldn't be getting off on it. He bowed his head between his arms and spread his legs.

"Eyes, Dean. I don't want to tell you again." John smacked Dean on the ass in reprimand, and Dean cringed as his ass clamped down on John's cock. It hurt, but he forced his muscles to relax despite the pain, because it would only get worse if he didn't. John's cock slid in another inch, pressed right up against Dean's prostate, and he released a low, guttural moan as his cock swelled between his thighs. He blinked, and met his father's eyes in the mirrors.

John looked happy. There was the smallest hint of a smile, almost a smirk, playing over his lips. He rolled his hips in circles, the tiny movements working his cock against Dean's prostate, and Dean angled his hips up and spat out his briefs. "More," he said quietly, voice hoarse like he'd been screaming. "It feels good."

"Such a good boy," John purred, and thrust his cock home in one long, hard thrust. Dean cried out in pain, because even if he wanted it-- he did, his dad wouldn't rape him, so he had to-- getting fucked with no prep and almost no lube wasn't fun even when the guy wasn't as well hung as his dad. John pressed his hand down into the hollow of Dean's hips and moved it up the line of Dean's spine in a slow, possessive slide that ended with his hand buried in Dean's hair. He dragged Dean back by his grip and Dean winced in pain, then shivered as John pressed their lips together.

"You feel just like her, so tight," John said, and leaned down to kiss Dean like the Devil was on his heels, lips rough as he fucked his tongue into Dean's mouth to taste his cock from the other end. Dean shivered and let himself be kissed, unable to make himself go as far as kissing back. He could watch, he could _beg_ , but the thought of kissing his dad had part of him curling up and crying. He ignored the feeling and deliberately clenched his ass around John's cock, milking it even though it hurt. John drew back, eyes dark, and chuckled. "You're starving, boy, but I'm going to fill you up so good you'll have me in your guts for _years_." He snapped his hips back and then into Dean in a series of short, hard jabs, pounding right into Dean's prostate each time. "I'm going to break you, going to fuck you up on Daddy's cock."

Dean's chest _hurt_. "Please," he whispered, as he tentatively rolled his hips back into John's thrusts. With every thrust back, John's cock pulled at the rim of his hole, and every thrust forward it felt like his insides were being bruised.

John's hand gripped Dean's chin in one hand and tilted it back toward the mirror. Dean had a moment to take in his swollen lips and scared-looking eyes before John's palm pressed into his throat and stole his attention. It was just a gentle pressure at first, but at Dean's hesitant "Dad?", John pressed down hard and cut off Dean's air.

Dean struggled, but it didn't do him any good. John's hand stayed firm against his throat, and Dean watched his own face flush red. He met John's eyes in the mirror, and John smiled and drove his hips into Dean's prostate. Dean's eyes fluttered closed and he tried to whimper, only to find that he couldn't make a sound. His struggles left him light headed, and he fought against the wave of dizziness that washed over him.

"This is going to feel good," John whispered into his ear, as he brought his other hand around Dean's front and fisted his cock in a tight grip. "Trust me."

Dean watched, wide eyed, as John moved behind him with powerful thrusts that rocked him forward into the grip on his cock. John's hand was wet, with leftover lube or Dean's precome, Dean couldn't tell. It felt like he was going to strip Dean's cock bare, each downward stroke pulling on the skin around his crown, too hard but somehow good. Tears welled up in his eyes and Dean couldn't stop them from rolling down his cheeks. He didn't have the air to think, the idea of struggling by now a foreign concept. He figured he'd gone without air for almost a minute.

His temperature skyrocketed upward, John's skin against his back uncomfortably cold, and the lightheaded feeling had him blinking spots of out his vision. He couldn't stop looking at John's face, eager and almost cruel, as he worked Dean over.

Fear washed over Dean in a sudden wave, and he bucked his hips against John's and desperately tried to pull in air, but John just fucked him harder, deeper, so fucking good it _hurt_ , a wave of pleasure so strong it tore open all the spaces in his mind and then John released his hold on Dean's neck, and he _came_. Dean sucked in a breath, but the spots in front of his eyes didn't fad, just sucked him down into oblivion.

***

Dean woke up the next morning with fingers in his ass.

His head was pounding hard with the mother of all tension headaches, and he looked back over his shoulder at John sitting on the bed next to him. "Hey, son," John said, an undercurrent to his voice Dean couldn't place. His thumb ran along the outside of Dean's rim and the fingers he had inside Dean pressed against his prostate with brutal force. Dean shuddered as his cock gave a painful twinge. John sucked in a shuddering breath, eyes hungry as he looked at Dean's hole. "I'm going to New Orleans today," he said, and then, after a long moment of silence from Dean, "Alone."

Dean turned his face away and shifted his hips in an attempt to find some relief. The pressure on his prostate was good, but he _hurt_ , deep inside, and John's fingers in him sent screaming waves of pain shooting out from his hole. He felt torn open, like John had done damage when he fucked him, the ring of his ass broken to easy looseness. "It's dangerous for you to be on your own," Dean said into the rough fabric of the motel pillowcase.

John slid another finger in, and bent down so his breath puffed over Dean as he spoke. "I'm more dangerous alone with you," he said, and then his tongue was circling the tight skin where his fingers were pushing at Dean's insides.

Dean hunched his shoulders and couldn't bite back a whimper. Just like that, John was gone, fingers out and off the bed, standing by the motel room door. "I told you I couldn't help myself," John said, angry and accusing. "You just-- _fuck_ , Dean, you need to keep hold of yourself." Dean kept staring at the wall opposite the door. "I wish it hadn't come to this. I hope when I get back, you'll have learned to keep yourself under control." His voice sharpened. "We clear?"

"Clear, sir," Dean said, voice empty. He still wouldn't look at John, and eventually the sound of the door opening and closing graced his ears.

Dean curled in on himself, muscles aching, and cried.

***

Epilogue

When the witch-doctor opened the door, Azazel poured himself out of John's skin and into the mouth of the man (Musa, Azazel noted idly) who was meant to help. He blinked open his new eyes and caught John as the hunter fell forward, then dragged him into the house. Musa hadn't decorated his home with the typical fetishes Azazel had come to expect from human psychics, so he deposited John unceremoniously on the couch and arranged him into a sitting position with rough hands and a bored eye for detail. There was no sign of Azazel's romp with Dean on John's body, and he spent a moment regretting the fact that John would probably never discover what had happened between him and his son.

No matter. The damage was done, Dean Winchester that much more likely to bring Sam back into the fold. It didn't matter that John might never know; Azazel had more than enough memories for both of them. Maybe John would dream of his son's tight little pucker stretched around him and wake up with sticky sheets, look at Dean's mouth and remember how nice it had been wrapped around his cock. Azazel hoped so.

He settled himself down in the armchair across from the couch and waited for John to wake up. It didn't take long, John's mind sharp even with how thoroughly Azazel had crushed it down under his own force of will.

John grunted and raised himself from his slump against the cushions, blinking wildly as he tried to orient himself.

"You okay, Winchester?" Azazel asked, filling his voice with deliberate concern.

"Where'm I?" John slurred out, squinting like the dim light of Musa's living room burned his eyes.

Azazel smiled, deep down where John couldn't see and Musa was screaming. "You're in New Orleans, man. I just fixed you up good, yeah? You owe me a solid." He tapped his finger on the table between them. "What do you remember?"

John sucked in a long breath and released it slowly through his nostrils. He cracked his knuckles, swollen from the fights Azazel had pushed his body through. "I was on a hunt," he said but didn't expand on the details. Dealing with John Winchester was like pulling teeth; Azazel knew from experience.

Of course, Azazel knew all about John's search for the Colt. But John didn't know that. "I heard talk of you, Winchester. You don't tell no one 'bout your business, but you need to tell me more than nothing if you want to hear what's happened."

John narrowed his eyes at Azazel and rubbed his swollen hands together. "I was searching for a weapon. With my son, Dean." Azazel nodded and raised Musa's eyebrow up. "We're looking for Samuel Colt's gun," John finally admitted.

Azazel trilled Musa's long, pointed fingers over the wood. "You talked to the wrong source. You came to me with a nasty bit of cursework deep set in your bones. I cleaned you up good, got you back to yourself. Loss of memory ain't no shock to me."

John's face closed off, the gears in his head obviously working hard. "Where's my son?" he asked.

"You came by yourself, man. What you did before you got to my door, I've got no way of knowing."

John asked to use his phone, and Azazel waved his hand at Musa's old rotary, got up to give John the illusion of privacy. He stood on the other side of the door to the kitchen and listened in on what he was sure was one hell of a conversation.

"Dean? Where are you?" John started. There was a brief pause, and John said, suspicion coating his voice, "I'm in New Orleans. Met myself what looks like a hoodoo man that set me to rights." He paused, then continued with reluctance after what Azazel could only guess was silence from the other end, "He says I was under a curse."

Azazel palmed Musa's cock as he listened to the conversation, as John questioned his son and grew frustrated with the answers. Dean would still be loose and open from his daddy's cock, desperate but afraid to believe John could be back to normal just like that. He hoped Dean felt their fuck for weeks; he'd been rough enough it was a possibility.

He wondered if Dean would say no if Azazel took John for another ride.

Azazel smiled.

Probably not.


End file.
